Even sadder, while I was away, J seems to have misplaced the kitchen knife of my soul, a high-carbon chinese cleaver with a whisper-thin blade that I got for $5 at the going-out-of-business sale of the old H Roth&Co on 82nd and 1st, 20-odd years ago. It was light, it was sharp, it was perfectly balanced, and I'd spent the past 15 years lovingly figuring out ways to keep the blade's half-inch tang from working its way out of the handle. It is a part of my history.
I always knew it would die sooner or later, so I've been holding onto worn-out blades from my japanese pullsaw -- the only metal I've ever seen with similar qualities -- figuring that I would trace the old blade profile, grind it out with a dremel, and start sharpening. Now I'll have to work from memory.